Death's Reckoning (8 page)

“There’s something you should see, captain.”

“Show me.”

When they got outside, the man showed them the service road leading up to the front of the yard. A small track of dirt had signs of wear.

“Right here, sir. I saw it a few minutes ago. Musta happened with the last few hours, maybe sooner.”

The ground was disturbed with wagon marks, as it should’ve been but Cubbins could tell by the loose rocks and the wetness, that this was recent. It had been run over and back again as if a wagon had come twice, once to pick up and once to leave.

There was one other thing as well. The two tracks were different. The one going showed deeper groves, proving that whatever contrivance that did it was heavier when it left, or loaded up with something from the graveyard.

“I’ll be damned,” the officer said and pointed. “Look there.”

The gate was open. It hadn’t been before, not last time Cubbins checked which was a few moments ago at his second story window. A trill of fear griped his heart as several other men came up to them, including Sergeant Bigus. The man stroked his bushy mustache in a nervous tick. Some of them swore and shook their heads, confusion dawning bright and fast.

“All right,” Cubbins said, taking control of his own doubt. He turned to Bigus, the closest sergeant. “Get everyone together and call back the patrols. I want all of us here. Do it.”

“Yes, sir!” Bigus said, and this sudden call to action snapped him out of shock. He took two other men with him, including the man with Cubbins up in the building.

The police captain fought back the urge to run into the graveyard. There weren’t enough men. There might’ve been robbers within, waiting for an opportunity to kill.

He spent a few minutes examining the gate while they wait for reinforcements. It was busted wide open, the lock and chains torn. Someone had ripped it apart. A team of oxen charging at full speed would have struggled with it, for the gate was solid and well built.

Cubbins picked up the broken lock and examined it, turning it over in his hands. It was heavy and solid, save the broken locking mechanism. There was a strange substance on the outside, some kind of sludge. Several more officers came up to their position. They started towards the gate, but he held them off. “Hold it. Secure this area first. I’ll go in with the next team. And watch where you walk.”

They spread out and looked around on the ground for anything unusual. Cubbins studied the lock some more, intrigued by the substance. It smelled rank and felt like snot. He put it back near the gate.

“Look here, sir,” Jenkins said. The young officer had come running from his southern patrol route. He squatted on the ground and pointed to an odd, discolored pattern on the side of the dirt road. “You see, Captain Cubbins? Strange, isn’t it?”

A greenish, fungal like growth littered the ground in clumps. It had the same consistency as the substance on the lock, only there was more of it. And thicker. The clumps were like eviscerated innards, long and ropey in places. Cubbins found a stick and poked a pile of it. It clung to the stick difficult to dislodge.

“Get a jar and save some of this,” he said to Jenkins, who wrinkled his nose but nodded.

“Yes, sir. I think I can find one.”

“Let’s go in,” Cubbins said and moved several of them inside the gates. Had the policeman been possessed of a more artistic, sensitive nature, he would have gaped in awe at the scene before them. The clear moonlight streamed down over grey headstones, some covered in fresh flowers, others with gleaming, polished surfaces, the lustrous granite sparkled serene, the roll and slope of the landscaped grass.

“Dear me,” someone said.

Cubbins frowned at the gasps of his men, but he couldn’t blame them either. The situation was astounding. The graveyard was gutted. Every visible grave dug out as if the diggers were getting them ready for the day’s burials. They looked like new plots ready for fresh caskets.

“I don’t understand this,” Jenkins said. He took his cap off and shook his head. “It’s like we weren’t even here. I mean, it wasn’t like this before, was it?”

“Calm down,” Cubbins said. “Give me a moment.”

But there was nothing. His head spun. It was his job to stay calm and rational, but the preternatural fear that bedeviled people since the dawn of time crept its way into his heart and locked down tight.

“All right,” he said and steadied his breathing. “I want a list of graves sites that have been molested. A total number, as well as their position. In the morning, we’ll meet with the caretakers and catalogue what’s missing. They’ll need our help. Get going.”

They spread out, paying careful attention to where they put their feet. They had some torches between them, but walking was treacherous due to the sheer number of large holes in the ground. Captain Cubbins imagined some of his men falling and added their bodies to cemetery. Death came sooner or later.

With this grim thought, they took note of the names and positions of the missing graves. No one spoke. He knew they were all flabbergasted.

One thing was for certain. Whatever it was, it was a power far greater than anyone of them could handle. He wasn’t looking forward to meeting it face to face.

* * * * *

For the first time since the fall of the city and Castellan’s arrest, Muldor wished for the man’s presence.

Dealing with the political morass was wearing on his nerves. Castellan was better at it and had more practice, more patience. Though dozens of soldiers remained, Grayme Lautner and his retainers were gone. Muldor felt a false sense of relief.

They’d given the city one month to hand over the amount they said Sea Haven owed. They were responsible and had to pay. Cassius informed him they would continue to work for some kind of compromise, but Muldor knew that was a lie. That position did not exist in Sea Haven. Instead, the council would make The Guild pay the fine, which amounted to extortion. There had to be a way to shift the blame to some other party, for the good of The Guild.

Muldor found himself in the middle of Market Square, mid-afternoon. As trade rejoined some weeks ago after the attack, activity increased. The mood was much improved as well. People came out of their protective cocoon and rejoined society with normal business functioning.

On the whole the entire affair seemed like nothing even for the two full days they had shut down the Western Docks. To close their trade was unthinkable, even for a moment. Opening the dock once more gave his strained nerves a release, and here was the end result. Things were looking back to the way they were.

He walked through the numerous stalls and carts as men and women sold their goods. Goods that came through the dock, goods The Merchants Guild got a percentage of everything they sold. On an individual basis, each Dock Master was in charge of their respective warehouses and when goods were sold at the market they made their profit based on the gross amount traded. This change was enacted by Castellan several years prior. The Dock Masters became rich.

Many of the buyers complained about the various mark-ups, but in the end The Guild controlled everything, and there was nothing they could do about it. Castellan had made them rich in the intervening years

The Guild needed a new liaison to organize things between docks and market. Castellan’s man had died during the bombings and Muldor considered him lucky. His suffering was over.

Ninety five percent of the market vendors were members of The Guild, inactive on most internal matters as they were, and Castellan had been in the process of weeding those few independents out. They had almost enacted the policy where only Guild members could sell at the marketplace, but it never got through the council, thus one more need to circumvent them and usurp the city’s government.

Muldor needed to find someone high up in the hierarchy of the vendors, in good standing with The Guild, and was willing to do the job. Market liaison would not be a difficult job, and it gave the member an instant promotion within The Guild.

The current Guild Master had a man in mind. Carl Tomlinson was the city’s largest seller of grains and vegetables, not a glamorous niche by any means but one of utmost importance. So much of the city’s food supply depended on him.

His suppliers were trustworthy, his prices competitive, and the quality of the highest standard. Tomlinson sold good wares, and even the common people of the city could afford to do business with him. Everyone liked him.

Muldor knew the man had few or no under-the-table enterprises. Such ventures were frowned upon but hard to enforce. Since there was little The Guild could do about it without causing a revolt within its members, they allowed it to happen within reason.

Carl and his produce were in a prime location at the marketplace. He had worked up to the location for decades, and Muldor respected him for it. The main thoroughfare branched off from his spot on the jutting corner, and anyone passing through the market had to pass by his stalls.

Boxes, crates, and numerous bags of grains stacked in ordered chaos around the area. Armed guards stood with halberds in hand and chainmail on their torsos. Thieves were more common now that The Thieves Guild was defunct, and Muldor was too busy to speak with Cubbins about the problem, so they would have to make do with extra guards.

Muldor stood behind some crates and watched Carl Tomlinson go about his business. He gave the man credit for being passionate. It was obvious he loved his job. Tomlinson was a grey bearded man with a round face and gentle eyes, of middle height with a calm demeanor. He laughed with every customer that bought from him as if they were old friends.

Carl chuckled as a man drew up with a small cart and threw down some coin on the counter. He shook the man’s hand and ordered some attendants to load him up with enough bags of grain to feed ten families for a month. Muldor wondered what that amount of food could be for. Foolish paranoia on his part, perhaps, but the buyer had enough money to pay so good on him.

When Carl took a short break off to the side of crates, Muldor approached.

Carl sucked from a water skin, and in his last gulp, he gave an awkward chuckle as he waved Muldor over. “Well, if it isn’t Guild Master Muldor. How goes your day, sir?”

“Good day to you. I would like a moment to speak with you, Tomlinson.”

Tomlinson almost frowned, but he recovered his outer façade of friendliness in an instant. “Of course, Master Muldor. Let’s, um, let’s go here.”

They went to a space in the noisy marketplace that was a bit more secluded. Surrounded by crates and boxes marked ‘Tomlinson’ with deep red ink, it felt like a child’s fort outside the confines of the main square.

Tomlinson turned, leaned up against a crate, and crossed his arms. “How may I be of service?”

“The Guild requires you to make a sacrifice.”

Tomlinson’s face clouded over. “Oh, yes?”

“In order to facilitate the proper integration of the city’s trade, and to ensure services remain at peak efficiency, your Guild membership will receive an upgrade in both proportion of payment and responsibilities.”

“An upgrade, you say?”

“A promotion. As you know, our marketplace liaison suffered an unfortunate accident.”

Tomlinson nodded as if it was no surprise. “I see. And you want me to take his place, is it?”

“Correct. There will be a substantial bonus involved in addition to your regular salary.”

Tomlinson raised a hand, and his bearded face grew grim. “There’s no need for that. I will do what is right and good for the Guild. It’s time we set things the way they should be.”

Muldor had expected a stiff rebuttal or at least a reluctant refusal. They spoke for a while longer and went over the details of Carl Tomlinson’s new position. He was loyal to The Guild, and Muldor left the marketplace feeling they were now on their way to righting the wrongs perpetuated by a madman in jail. They didn’t need Castellan after all.

* * * * *

Another lousy night at the dice tables. Even the alcohol tasted bitter. They were watering it down on him, maybe even adding poison. They were also cheating him at the tables. It was so obvious that Jerrod was flabbergasted they would take it this far. They weren’t even hiding the fact. It was too blatant to be anything else.

Bastard swine. He glared at every single employee, but they continued to ignore him. Serving wenches, dealers, attendants, a few floor managers, all of them laughed at him in the backroom. He’d put a knife in their bellies. They deserved nothing less.

He plopped down his glass; the liquid sailed into the air and splashed down on the counter. Elbowing his way to the largest dice table in the room, he got more stares. The table centered within a cluster of other tables, smaller ones with nothing but scrubs and cowards playing. The big one didn’t have the prestige of the inner betting rooms with the high rollers, but it would work.

The table’s dealer, an average looking man with that damn silly leather vest they always wore, dyed with red ink so they stood out, he gave Jerrod a look but took his money and put him third in line to roll for the next game. It wasn’t the best position to be in, not by a long mile, but it was acceptable.

When the current game finished, now in its tenth and final roller, the cycle would start over, and new rollers could jump in. The object of the game was simple, and the amount you could win high, so everyone loved the game. Roll more than the person in line before you on two dice, and if you chose, roll two extra groups of two, either combining them all for a grand total, or laying down the individual bets on each group in a separate line.